Instead of an Iron Duke, we have a Rubber Poodle. Instead of an ultra-Tory in opposition, we have have an MOR pseudo-Tony. No more pistols at dawn , just press releases over lunch….

Iron Duke fights duel over Catholics

Saturday March 28, 1829
The Guardian

It is our duty to announce to the public an event which fortunately has not been attended with fatal consequences to the personages concerned. A meeting took place yesterday morning in Battersea-fields between the Duke of Wellington and the Earl of Winchilsea.

[…] From the Duke to Lord Winchilsea: “My Lord – is a gentleman who happens to be the king’s first minister, to submit to being insulted by any gentleman who thinks proper to attributed to him disgraceful or criminal motives for his behaviour? Your lordship is alone responsible for the consequences. I call upon your lordship to give me that satisfaction for your conduct which a gentleman never refuses to give.”

From Lord Winchilsea. “My Lord – the satisfaction which your grace has demanded, it is of course impossible for me to decline.”

The Duke of Wellington and Lord Winchilsea met at the appointed place. The parties having taken their ground, Lord Winchilsea received the Duke of Wellington’s fire [apparently not aimed at him] and fired in the air. After some discussion the accompanying memorandum was accepted as a satisfactory reparation to the Duke of Wellington. […]
There is no honour in politics any longer. There is little enough in British life altogether, for that matter. I would rant about the ‘respect’ culture Herr Blair insists we must engender, when he commands so little of it himself… but I wither at the thought. I would rail against the ‘professional politician’ as an invasive species detrimental to the natives of these Isles, for the evidence lies clear around us… these new, mutant isoforms of human beings falling somewhere between parasites and saprophytes, feeding both from the remaining living Britains and sucking the vitality from those millions already mentally dead. I long for truth, and look for someone to trust, someone to inspire, but today the clouds are low and dark and there is a sickness in my stomach and a stench in my nostrils. The sounds of Wellington’s gunshots have long since died, and in their place only the slither of snakes crawling over the rotten, bloated corpse of a once Great Britain.

The only solution, pick up your metaphorical pistols and challenge these whimpering political dogs to a fight! I will see you, Sir, at dawn, and the choice of weapons shall be mine!

‘Youre always so happy, how the hell…

You’re like a dumb dumb patriot

If youre supposed to be so angry, why dont you fight

Let me benefit from your right?

Dont you know the only way to change things

Is to shoot men who arrange things

Robin I would try and explain but you’d never see in a million years.‘

This entry was posted on Tuesday, March 28th, 2006 at 10:55 am and is filed under History, Politricks, Remember.